


Worth Any Price

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Brief mention of someone trying to grope Crowley, Deep down a nice person, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing Booth, M/M, Mild Angst, Minor plot, Miscommunication, Other, Pair of useless idiots, Panicking and lying, Post-Apocalypse, Some spy-type nonsense, don't worry he regrets it, following to secret meetings and such, hurt/comfort in second chapter, stupid self-sacrificing demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-07 03:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley's latest shenanigans involve setting up a Kissing Booth outside Aziraphale's very respectable shop. So, obviously, Aziraphale has to go over and find out what he's doing.





	1. The Kissing Booth

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a little bit of nonsense and has now turned into a big nonsense. There will likely be even more nonsense at some point, because I have Ideas for a second part. I don't know how you all put up with me, to be honest, but there we go. Enjoy!

Aziraphale opens his shop one morning at his usual late hour, and glances out of the window to see Crowley deep in conversation with a woman he vaguely recognises as a local sex worker. She’s popped in to avoid police patrols, a few times, and he’s found her to be a very lovely woman. Crowley, judging by the way he’s turned his charm up to eleven and seems to be trying to _ reason _with her, is experiencing a different side of her. He opens his shop door - not to eavesdrop, just to let some fresh air in - and realises that Marjorie is tearing the demon off a strip.

“You can’t just muscle in on someone’s livelihood like that-”

“Ah, but it’s not quite the same thing, is it? I mean, if somebody’s looking for what _ you _ offer, they’re not going to be satisfied with _ me_, are they? It’s just a bit of fun. _ And _it’s for a good cause.”

“Hm.” Marjorie glares at him, but she’s not unreasonable. “Alright, but the Council aren’t going to like your _ temporary structure_.”

“Got a permit, look.” He holds it up and grins. “Thanks, Margie, you’re a champion.”

“That I am.” She glances over her shoulder and spots Aziraphale, lingering in the doorway. “Oh, but you might have some trouble with Mr. Fell. You’re right outside his shop, and he’s a little old-fashioned - but he’s a nice man. I’m sure you can talk him round.”

“I’ll do my best.” Crowley watches her walk away, then saunters over to Aziraphale with an enormous, smug grin on his face. “Old-fashioned, hm? Well, this is a traditional stall.”

“What kind of stall?” Aziraphale’s almost afraid to ask, if it puts him in competition with Marjorie.

“Kissing booth! Saw one in 1921, thought it was a great idea. Stirs up all the lust in the area.”

“Right. Well. Good luck with that, then.” Aziraphale turns to retreat into his shop, and Crowley calls after him.

“Aren’t you going to try to thwart me?”

“Stirring up lust? It’s _ Soho_, dear. I doubt you’ll make much of an impact.”

"We'll see ab-" But the door swings closed behind him, cutting off Crowley's attempt to have the last word, and Aziraphale considers that a win.

He watches, over the course of the day, as humans sidle up to the stall - more of a tent with a counter, really - looking sheepish. The first few humans lose their nerve and turn tail, leaving their money behind them, and Aziraphale would laugh at Crowley's injured expression if not for the strange feeling of relief in his own stomach. He's just beginning to think that he should go over and get the ball rolling when a young man - surely no more than 25 - slinks up to the booth. Aziraphale can feel fear and shame and sorrow positively _ rolling _off of him, and he seems to expect that Crowley will turn him away. Crowley, instead, settles himself comfortably and listens. The young man looks close to tears, and Crowley listens to him sympathetically before reaching out and pulling him forward. He presses their foreheads together, fingers buried in the young man's hair, and Aziraphale can tell from his face that he's murmuring something fierce, something encouraging. Then the young man nods, and Crowley kisses him.

It's just a kiss. There's no reason for Aziraphale to want to rush over there and separate them; it's not a temptation, just a brief, chaste kiss. When they break apart, Crowley keeps one hand in the young man's hair and presses a second kiss to his forehead - but then Aziraphale is distracted by a miraculous energy nearby. He reels backwards as the instantly recognisable sensation of a _ blessing _washes over him, and he can only hope that whichever angel is nearby, they leave without a fuss, without spotting Crowley and thwarting him. He hurries out of the shop, taking a few protective steps towards the demon before he realises that the feeling is gone.

Relieved, he watches as Crowley collapses back into his chair and waves away the young man's offer of money. The young man waits until he's not looking and chucks some change into the bucket anyway, scurrying on down the street pink-cheeked and smiling. Crowley must hear the coins clank, but he's busy digging his fingers into the wooden frame of the booth; if Aziraphale didn't know better he'd think he'd just been kicked in the stomach. But then he spots Aziraphale and all traces of discomfort vanish, replaced with a smug smile.

"Angel! Come to sample the goods, have you?"

"No I have not!" He's not sure why the accusation offends him so much. "Didn't you feel that?"

"Feel what?" Crowley's not a good liar, and as far as Aziraphale's concerned he's not much good at evasion either. He marches up to the stall, lowering his voice.

"That blessing. There must be an angel nearby."

"Oh, yeah. Sure it wasn't you, letting one rip by accident?"

"It _ wasn't me_. Just be careful, Crowley. If you get discorporated here, _ I'll _ be the one who has to get rid of this sordid little structure."

"I won't." He seems very certain; Aziraphale supposes he's relying on the fear they cultivated at their failed executions to keep him safe. "So, while you're here, angel - a pound a go, can't say fairer than that, can you?"

"No, I don't think so, Crowley." He heads back to his shop and spends the next fifteen minutes distinctly not looking out of the window.

When he does look up, Crowley has a small queue lined up. Mostly women, a couple of men, all looking eager and excited. Crowley exchanges quick, quiet words with them, then leans over his little counter and kisses each human as tenderly as if each was his own true love. Then he smiles, offers them the bucket, and thanks them for whatever they put in it before they go on their way. The moment the next person steps up, it's as if Crowley only has eyes for _ them_.

Aziraphale doesn't even realise he's joined the queue until he reaches the front; the young woman in front of him says something bashful and Crowley smiles.

"If you come back in an hour or so, my sister's taking over. Might help you figure things out."

"Oh - wouldn't that be weird?"

"No. But it's all up to you. Wait for her, if you like. I won't be offended." The girl hesitates, then leans in, and Crowley leans in to meet her. Then, almost as soon as it's begun, the kiss is over, the young woman stumbling slightly. Crowley catches her by the elbows, steadies her. "All right? Quid in the bucket, then, and I'll tell my sister you get a freebie."

"How would she know who I was?"

"Oh. Er. I dunno, say something about whales. No pressure if you don't want to come back, but…"

"No, I think you're right. It might help. Thanks." She drops a coin into the bucket and leaves, and all of a sudden Crowley's charm turns onto Aziraphale.

“Angel. Changed your mind?”

“Er. Well. I was curious.”

“Want a taste, do you?” Crowley is almost unbearably smug, and Aziraphale shakes his head based purely on the impulse to not let him win.

“No, I- I- if you must know, I wanted to know what purpose the bucket serves in the whole… temptation… thing. It’s not as if you need the money.”

“Ah, tradition, angel. Besides, someone sets up on the street offering kisses, it seems a bit suspicious unless they’re after your cash. See?”

“Right. And this is _ less _suspicious?”

“Nobody seems to be complaining. So, what do you say, angel? Going to donate a quid?”

“Oh- er- donate, you say?”

“Yeah, it’s all for a very good cause. Your lot are pretty big on charity, aren’t they?”

“Er. Well. Yes. Although I seem to remember us establishing that we were on our _ own _side.”

“Old habits, angel. Come on, pay up.”

Aziraphale doesn’t see any way to argue with that, except perhaps one.

“I thought you only paid in exchange for a kiss?” Crowley rolls his eyes and leans across his little counter, and for a moment Aziraphale would swear his hand shakes as it comes to rest on Aziraphale’s cheek. Then, almost before he can process it, Crowley’s nose is bumping gently against his, as if asking permission. Aziraphale freezes, and feels the nose withdraw a fraction.

“There, nose-ru-” But Aziraphale moves forward without conscious thought, cutting off Crowley’s attempt to shrug off the rejection. His lips meet Crowley’s, the demon’s lips still parted to speak, and for a moment they are _ kissing. _ Aziraphale is kissing Crowley, and Crowley is kissing Aziraphale, and Aziraphale thinks his brain might implode from the perfection of it all. And then he remembers where they are, and _ why _ they’re kissing, and he draws back, embarrassed.

“Er. There. Sorry. I’ll…” He fumbles in his pocket for a couple of pound coins and drops them into the bucket. “You’ve got a queue.” Then, before Crowley can say anything, he walks away.

Back in the shop, he goes to the back room and hides his face in a book. He’s imagined kissing Crowley a thousand times - it’s hard not to, sometimes, with the way Crowley _ gets _ when they’re alone together, all relaxed and tempting and maddeningly beautiful - but he never meant to actually _ do _ it. Before, he feared their sides would destroy them; since the apocalypse, he’s feared Crowley would leave, and that would destroy _ him_. Now, though, now he’s ruined everything between them with a stupid uncontrolled impulse, and there’s no way it’s not going to be awkward.

Unless - he wanders through to the front of the shop in time to see Crowley hang up a sign saying ‘closed for 5 minutes’ and slope off around the corner - unless he can claim it was curiosity of quite another sort. Most of his neighbours assume that he’s gay, that he's had _ some _ sort of intimacy in years gone by, but _ Crowley _ will surely believe him if he claims he just wanted to know what it felt like to kiss somebody. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?

He really can’t fault Crowley’s work ethic; exactly five minutes later, he’s back, looking substantially more feminine than he had previously. He throws the sign aside and climbs back over the counter - entirely unnecessary, he’s quite capable of going round - before calling something out to a passing stranger. If Aziraphale had thought Crowley was a popular _ man_, it’s nothing compared to the reaction his more womanly wiles provoke. Men, especially, seem quite prepared to queue around the block for the chance of a kiss, and Crowley dishes them out with a smile. He lights up when he spots the shy girl from earlier in the queue, and waves her forward. This time, when he kisses her, the girl gets all giggly, and Crowley beams as proudly as if he’s just inspired the discovery of nuclear fission all over again. Another strange burst of _ blessing _ distracts Aziraphale, setting him to searching the street for angelic threats, but he finds nothing out of place. Crowley still doesn't seem to have noticed anything; when Aziraphale looks back at him he's leaning on the counter, hands flattened on the flimsy board to support himself as he kisses yet another stranger. 

Aziraphale resists for almost forty-five minutes before he realises that Crowley’s new form offers him a chance to back up his half-formed excuse for his behaviour. If that means kissing Crowley again, then it’s a sacrifice Aziraphale is willing to make. For their friendship, of course. He gets back in line and waits, impatiently, as the queue of people receive their kisses. The man in front of him takes his time, speaking in a low voice, and Crowley giggles girlishly.

“I’m sorry, this is a kissing booth, no more than that. You could try chatting to Marjorie up the road, though.” He’s just about to give the man directions, judging by the way he’s leaning out of the booth and pointing, when the man makes a grab for him and finds his wrist caught in a vice-like grip. Aziraphale hears a creak of bone, and a whimper, and then Crowley’s voice, soft as the whisper of steel leaving a scabbard. “On second thoughts, I think perhaps you’d better just go straight to A & E. Marjorie doesn’t like men who can’t follow instructions, and neither do I.” A sharp crack, and the man reels backwards and _ runs_, clutching his broken wrist, an expression of utter terror on his face. Aziraphale, personally, thinks he’s got off lightly; he’s definitely seen Crowley snake out for less.

Crowley takes a couple of seconds to rearrange his face into a welcoming smile, but the queue behind Aziraphale has abruptly disappeared. It seems everyone in Soho suddenly has somewhere else they need to be, and Aziraphale’s not actually sure if Crowley’s miracled himself a break, or if the humans are just afraid of having _ their _wrists broken, too.

“Angel.” He seems surprised to see him, but not displeased. Aziraphale wonders if the demon has already come to the same conclusion he means to lead him to. “You’re back.”

“Yes, well. I’ve, er, that is- it’s just that I was curious about- about kissing, you know, not you but in general- and I’m wondering how a partner’s gender presentation might change things.”

“Wondering about the lipstick, hm?” Crowley pushes his sunglasses more firmly onto his nose, as if to reinforce his shield, and Aziraphale wonders why on earth he’s bothering _ now_, when it’s only Aziraphale. “Well, it’s still a pound a go.”

“Yes, yes, for charity, of course. Which charity is all this in aid of, anyway?”

“The Anthony J. Crowley Foundation.”

“Crowley, that’s deceitful!”

“Demon. So, how about it? Going to contribute to the cause?”

“Well, I don’t know that I _ should, _now.”

“But you want to.” Crowley leans closer, grinning in a way that absolutely _ should not _ be attractive and absolutely _ is_. “You can’t resist a charity bucket, fake or not.”

“I- look- it’s just convenient, that’s all. You’re giving out kisses-”

“In exchange for donations,” Crowley reminds him,

“-and I want to know what it's like to kiss a woman. Er, that is-"

"No, I know what you mean. Well, then," He shakes the bucket pointedly, and Aziraphale drops a coin into it uncomfortably. Crowley, on the other hand, doesn't seem uncomfortable at all as he leans in. "Of course, it's still just me. You might be disappointed."

"Never," Aziraphale mumbles, and kisses him before he can say anything more incriminating. He pulls back too soon, afraid to take more than he's given, but Crowley moves with him, just an inch, lips meeting again for the briefest of moments before he retreats back into the booth.

"Oops. Sorry. I suppose that's another pound in the bucket."

"That was _ you_," Aziraphale argues mildly, but he drops a coin in anyway. "What are y- the _ Anthony J. Crowley Foundation _going to do with all this cash, anyway?"

"Pile it up and sleep on it, like a dragon." Crowley pokes his forked tongue out at him, then smirks. "I want to change back, is anyone looking?"

Aziraphale turns to check, and when he turns back, Crowley looks just as he had earlier in the day. He's eyeing Aziraphale thoughtfully.

"So… satisfied?"

"What?"

"You were curious. Did it help?"

"Oh." He shrugs. "I suppose it was informative. I did end up with more kisses _ with _ lipstick than without."

"Oh. Right. Better even that up then. If it bothers you." Aziraphale doesn't say a word, just leans in and waits for Crowley to meet him halfway. Crowley does, his tongue darting out to moisten his own lips and catching Aziraphale's in the process, and the angel utterly takes leave of his senses. 

He's barely aware of the miracle that puts him on the other side of the counter, pressing Crowley against the flimsy wooden frame and canvas walls that form the booth, but it makes it easier to wrap his arms around the demon and kiss him like it's all he can think about. It _ is _all he can think about. Crowley's hands flutter around his arms and shoulders before one seeks purchase in his hair, and Aziraphale doesn't stop, just tilts his head slightly to get a better angle and urges Crowley's lips to part. They do, and Aziraphale presses his advantage as a desperate noise escapes the demon's throat. Aziraphale knows he should stop, knows he's breaking the tacit rules of the kissing booth, but every time he tries to move back, Crowley surges forwards to join their lips again. When Crowley stumbles back a step - never good at being upright - Aziraphale shifts with him, those accursed sunglasses biting into his nose. It's that minor discomfort that finally makes him break away for a moment, and then he looks at Crowley and realises what he's done.

The demon grips the frame of the booth with both hands, breathing heavily, his hair sticking up all over the place in a completely different way to its usual artful tufts. His lips are puffy and red, and he's just staring at Aziraphale. The angel wants to run, but Crowley looks as though he's gathering himself to speak, and Aziraphale owes him the courtesy of listening. He's sure Crowley is furious with him for taking such liberties, but he'll face the demon's anger. He was a soldier of Heaven once, after all. There's no reason _ this _demon's reactions should frighten him. They do anyway.

"Pound," Crowley manages at last, and as he takes another gasping breath Aziraphale's mind briefly flickers over some very unangelic thoughts. "Pound a go. Rate you're going, you might have to sell a first edition."

The words crash over Aziraphale like a bucket of icy water; of course Crowley is just here to try to scam some money from people, and Aziraphale has fallen into his trap. Worse, he's done himself a terrible wrong, because for a moment there he'd almost convinced himself that Crowley wanted him, too.

"Hardly. A second edition, maybe. And my curiosity is quite satisfied." He's far from satisfied; the pounding of the blood in his veins only goes to prove that he will _ never _ be satisfied until Crowley is _ his_, telling him he feels as Aziraphale does, begging him for more- He drags his thoughts away from that dangerous direction and snaps his fingers, the bucket filling with small change and crumpled notes. "Thank you for your help, Crowley." Then he turns and walks primly back into his shop.

He forces himself to answer the phone ringing behind the counter rather than retreating to the back room, and as he absently writes down the details of a book the caller is searching for, he sees Crowley standing on the street, one hand running through his own hair, looking rather lost. Then he picks up the bucket, miracles away the stall, and goes to sit in the Bentley. Aziraphale wanders closer to the window once the collector hangs up, and sees Crowley carefully pouring the contents of the bucket into a cheque. It's bigger than a normal cheque - Crowley's eyes must be giving him trouble again, as they sometimes do near his snake form's shedding time - and Aziraphale can clearly see the amount on it. He knows _ he _ gave generously to the supposed good cause, but Crowley has raised a _ lot _of money in the few hours he's been out there. Kissing people. Aziraphale isn't jealous, of course, not at all. He's impressed with how many people have donated, that's all. If only it was a real charity. Crowley, however, seems less impressed; he pokes at the cheque until the numbers shuffle along a decimal place or two, then nods. Apparently, this larger number is satisfactory; he shrinks the cheque down, tucks it into a pocket and gets his phone out.

Aziraphale knows he shouldn’t follow, when Crowley ends the call and gets out of the car, striding away as if his limbs aren’t entirely connected, as usual. He doesn’t _ have _ to thwart Crowley’s wiles any more. But he’s curious; Crowley doesn’t lie to him, as a rule, and there’s no doubt that he has. He certainly hasn’t turned his bucket of cash into a cheque so he can _ pile it up and sleep on it. _ So Aziraphale locks the shop door and follows, hanging back in the crowds, as Crowley walks in the general direction of Clerkenwell and takes a seat on a bench near one end of the green space in Queen Square. Aziraphale fights down the instinctive jealousy that rears its head as another man takes the seat beside him - _ Aziraphale’s _seat, by rights, simply by virtue of being the one to Crowley’s right.

“Must we go through all the cloak and dagger every time, Mr Crowley?”

“Well, it’s not the same if someone sees you. Besides,” Crowley adds, “I have a reputation to think of.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. You said you have something for me?”

“I do. Here.” Crowley glances around theatrically, as if he’s afraid someone might be watching, and Aziraphale ducks a little further behind the tree he’s using as cover. Crowley doesn't seem to notice him; he just scribbles something - a recipient's name, no doubt - and hands the cheque over. It's excellent slight of hand; Aziraphale almost doesn't see the slip of paper change hands at all, distracted by Crowley's long, slender fingers tucking his pen into a pocket. “Put it to good use, yeah?”

“We always do, Mr Crowley, we always do. Thank you for this; I’d better be off.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a lot on this evening, too. Bye.”

Aziraphale hesitates; he thinks about confronting Crowley, but the curiosity is just too much to bear, and so he follows the suspicious gentleman Crowley’s just been talking to. He doesn’t go far; he just strolls in through the outer door of a ward at Great Ormond Street Hospital and vanishes. Aziraphale is, briefly, horrified - one of Crowley’s agents, doing something nefarious in a _ hospital_? But he knows his friend a little better than that, after all these years, and so he turns to a nurse who seems to be having a bit of a cry outside.

“Sorry, er- who’s that? The man who just walked in.”

“Hm? Oh, that’s just Doctor Humphries. Head of Department. Why?”

“Oh, no, no reason. You be strong, now. You’re doing very good work.” He imbues her with a little angelic strength, then walks away, retracing his steps.

When he reaches Queen’s Square, Crowley is still on the bench. Waiting for him.

“Angel! You’re back! Enjoy your walk?” He sounds confident, unless you happen to have known him for 6000 years, and Aziraphale has. He hears the hint of a defensive tone beneath the cheery bravado.

“It was illuminating.” He comes to sit beside Crowley, frowning. “Why on earth did you lie about it, Crowley?”

“Well. You know. Not very _ me_.”

“On the contrary, my dear. You’ve always been-”

“Don’t say it-”

“-very nice to children.” He holds the demon’s furious glare until Crowley drops it.

“Shut up. ‘S why I lied.”

“Do you usually fundraise by kissing people?”

“No. That’d be horribly inefficient, I only made about fifty quid from people who weren’t mildly curious bookshop owners.” Crowley shrugs. “How was that for you, by the way? I mean… I haven’t put you off of kissing altogether, have I?”

Crowley has been caught out, and now it seems it's Aziraphale's turn to be put on the spot.

“Not altogether,” he hedges, and then… “That wasn’t exactly my first kiss.”

“What?” Crowley almost slides off the bench, but recovers himself quickly. Aziraphale politely pretends not to notice. “Er. I mean, right. Mine neither.”

“It wasn’t even _ your _ first kiss _ today_.”

“All right, don’t judge me-”

“No. No, it isn’t that. What I mean is… I wasn’t curious about _ kissing_. You were right all along, I’m afraid. I wanted to kiss _ you_.”

Crowley looks at him, and for a moment it’s as if Aziraphale hasn’t said anything at all. Then he smiles, not his usual dangerous smirk but the delighted anticipation he’d first worn on the wall of Eden.

“Me?”

“Yes. I'd still like to. Again, I mean. Er… is that all right?”

“Oooohhh, I dunno.” Crowley peers wickedly at him over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s gonna cost you.”

“Oh. Oh, well, I’m sure I could- could make a contribution-”

“I’m teasing you, angel.” Crowley leans in close, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek in one artfully careless hand, and whispers into the single breath that separates their lips. “Free of charge.”

Aziraphale would sell every book in his shop, and gladly, to buy the kiss they share then.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley wakes one morning, brings Aziraphale a cup of tea, and announces that he's going out for the day in a tone that suggests he's seeking approval.

"Of course," Aziraphale assures him, "do you have anything nice planned?"

"I was going to take the booth out. Seems a shame to only use it once."

"Oh?" He tries not to worry, but of course he does; he suspects it's just a part of him. "The kissing booth?"

"That's the one." Crowley pauses for a few seconds, teasing him, before he continues. "I was thinking of a Free Hugs booth, to be honest. There's a funfair in-"

"You can do the kissing booth if you'd rather," Aziraphale tells him, "as long as nobody else gets _ this_." He stands and pulls Crowley into a kiss that rivals their first - their first _ proper _kiss, on that bench, just a few months ago. Crowley makes a little pleased sound, and when they break apart he seems to be rethinking the whole idea of going out for the day.

"I- I can- argh. Er, I'll stick to hugs, but I do have to go."

"All right. Where's the fair? Perhaps I could pop up after I close the shop."

"Green Park. Do, it'd be fun to have a look around together. But first-"

"-free hugs," Aziraphale finishes for him. "I thought you said it was suspicious when someone didn't want your money?"

"No- well, yes, usually. But free hugs have kind of become a thing, I just happen to have a little tent."

"And what do you get out of it?"

"Temptations, angel. I could whisper anything in those ears."

Aziraphale doesn't let him out of the door until he's been soundly kissed, but then Crowley is gone. Aziraphale potters around for a while, going through the motions of opening up the shop in a sort of daze. It's been almost four months since Crowley set up the kissing booth - the blink of an eye, compared to all the time he's spent _ not _kissing Crowley - and he still can't quite believe how blessed he is. His ancient adversary is all he could ever want, and now he has him. He knows the taste of him, the shape of his every emotion, and he wouldn't trade it for anything. Nothing is ever taking Crowley away from him, unless Crowley himself changes his mind.

His blood runs cold as the familiar sensation of a blessing being performed washes over him from the southwest. _ Crowley is in Green Park. _ Heaven has all but promised to leave Aziraphale alone, the demon assured him when they returned from their failed executions, but they have made no such promises about Crowley. Now his demon is alone, out in the open, without Aziraphale to watch for danger, and _ someone is blessing in Green Park_. The blessing feels deep, old - it’s not a powerful human, it’s an ethereal being. An angel. Perhaps a _ wounded _angel, judging by the faint tang of pain woven through the miracle. And a wounded angel is like a cornered animal, all teeth and blades and fire.

The customer browsing the shop finds herself two blocks away, the bookshop shutters and locks itself, and Aziraphale runs with a speed no human can match. He has to get to Crowley.

The little fair is heaving with people, but that doesn’t mean an angel couldn’t go unnoticed among the crowds. Aziraphale does it himself, dodging between the Rainbow Roller and a hook-a-duck stall, searching for any sign of a Heavenly presence, seeking a familiar tent. At last he spots it, a small canvas structure nestled between the Haunted House and the Hall of Mirrors. Crowley has written out a sign - _ FREE HUGS - _in beautiful copperplate letters and stuck it to the canvas; he’s forgone the counter he leant on when it was a kissing booth in favour of an open front, as if to reassure people that nothing untoward is going on inside. Defensively speaking, it’s a terrible position. Aziraphale is about to turn away and keep sweeping the fair, to leave his demon to the small cluster of people waiting for him, the man in his arms shaking as Crowley murmurs something soothing into his ear. But then he notices how unnaturally pale Crowley looks, how one hand is balled into a tight fist of pain against the man’s back. He has to talk to him; it’s all he can do to hang back while the man Crowley’s just hugged staggers away.

There are a couple of protests as he walks past the queue and strides into the tent, but Crowley smiles as he spots him.

“Oh, hello, angel. Do you need me back?”

“No, no- I just need a quick word.”

“Two minutes, everyone? This is my other half, I’ll be right back with you.” There’s no time, Aziraphale thinks irritably, for the surge of emotion that rises within him at the words; Crowley _ is _his other half, the part that completes him, and he has to focus on making sure he doesn’t lose it. He lets Crowley guide him to the back of the small booth and speaks quietly, urgently.

“There was a blessing near here. Did you feel it?”

“Er… might have felt something a bit weird, yeah-”

“Crowley, does being near a blessing hurt you?” He’s never stopped to consider it before, certain that Crowley would have mentioned it, but the demon is vulnerable to Holy Water and consecrated ground; what if every blessing he’s ever been witness to has stung him, left his face as pale and tight as it is now, and Aziraphale’s never noticed?

“What? No. I’ve been there for thousands of your blessings. The Arrangement wouldn’t have worked very well if your blessings hurt, would it?”

“And other blessings?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been near any other angel when they were getting their bless on.” Crowley’s not taking him seriously; Aziraphale glares at him.

“This blessing, just now?” Crowley’s face falls; he looks away.

“I… yeah, I suppose it took a bit out of me, why?”

“Right, then we need to get you out of here before they do anything else.”

“What? No. I’m busy here, angel-”

“And another angel is _ here_. I felt their _ pain_, they’re not going to react well if they spot a demon.”

“There’s no angel here-”

“Crowley, I know what I felt. That was not a mortal’s prayer, that was an ethereal blessing. Please. It’s not safe-”

“Then stay with me. Keep an eye out.” Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale realises he’s serious. He’s really not leaving.

“Fine. Then I suppose I should also be available for these, er, hugs.”

It’s embarrassing for an angel - a being of _ love _\- to realise that he has no idea how to proceed. Hugs are loving, comforting things, and he enjoys them, but he hasn’t the faintest clue how one is supposed to share a hug with a stranger, much less a procession of strangers. He hangs back at the back of the booth and watches Crowley as he opens his arms to his next friend, who’s grinning broadly.

“Who says men don’t hug, right? Top bloke,” the man says, and Crowley gives him a fist bump once he lets him go.

“Exactly. Go out there and spread some joy,” the demon tells him, and then darts a look at Aziraphale to see if he’s heard him being _ nice_. Aziraphale keeps his expression as blank as he can, and Crowley welcomes the next in the queue into the booth.

“I’m just struggling… there are so many kids here, and we’ve been trying for so long- sorry, you don’t want to hear-”

“I do,” Crowley tells her softly, “would a hug help?” She nods and steps into his arms, and Crowley holds her for longer than Aziraphale had expected. In fact, it seems that he needs a bit more time with her - or she needs more time with him - so it’s time for the angel to step up.

“Who’s next?” He smiles, opening his arms, and someone steps into them almost immediately. It’s a perfunctory hug, like the woman just wanted to take part, but Aziraphale gives her a tentative squeeze of reassurance anyway. And then he almost pushes her away in terror as that feeling of blessing makes itself known again. He holds in the panic with difficulty, smiles as she thanks him and leaves, and only then turns to Crowley.

The demon is still talking to the same woman, his hands on her shoulders, and Aziraphale can’t make out his quiet words but the tone is one of encouragement and support. He can’t interrupt, not even to warn Crowley that the angel is still nearby - very close, he’s sure of it, the blessing was so _ strong _\- and a closer look at Crowley tells him that the demon already knows. He’s chalk-white, again, and he has to pause his pep talk for a moment to catch his breath. Crowley is hurt; Crowley is in danger; Crowley is stubborn, and Aziraphale has already lost this argument. Angels rarely stay in one place for more than three blessings, and they’ve had two; with a bit of luck, that will be an end to it. Crowley can recover - a few temptations, perhaps, and he’ll feel better. Aziraphale turns to the next person in the queue.

A whole group of friends show up after that second blessing, and divide themselves neatly between the angel and the demon. Crowley doesn’t seem to be doing a lot of tempting - beyond the usual stirring of lust that seems to follow him wherever he goes, and which Aziraphale is certain has no supernatural component - so Aziraphale takes it upon himself to whisper a suggestion into a young lad’s ear. The group head off to try to sneak into a cinema, and Aziraphale feels the slight nudge of a demonic miracle that means they won’t be caught. He glares at Crowley; he’s supposed to be recovering.

There’s a lull in the crowd, and Aziraphale takes the opportunity to claim a hug for himself. He wraps his arms around Crowley and the demon practically melts against him, letting Aziraphale support him.

“I knew you felt it,” Aziraphale accuses, but Crowley shakes his head.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“We can go home. There’s no reason-”

“There’s every reason. Do you know how many people I’ve had cry on me today because they’re so starved for comforting physical contact?” Crowley sighs. “It’s been a lot of people. And I can’t do anything much for most of them. Just let me try a little longer, OK? To do what I can.”

“That’s very-”

“If you say _ nice- _”

“-admirable, Crowley, but what about the angel?”

“The only angel I see is you,” Crowley tells him firmly, “and you’re not hurting me. Look- one more hour. You can go and explore the funfair, find something fun for us to do on the way out, and then we’ll go. OK?”

Aziraphale is startled by the determination in Crowley’s voice; he doesn’t know what to do except to obey.

“All right. But if I see _ anything _ Heavenly out there, I’m coming back.”

“Fine. Yeah. Angel-” Aziraphale, halfway to the edge of the tent, turns back. “Really, don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry, Crowley.” But he steps into the crowds and allows himself to be swept along the path, between rides and stalls. He eyes the dodgems thoughtfully; Crowley likes bumper cars, but he’s unlikely to take any notice of the ‘no deliberate collisions’ sign on this ride. He wanders on, searching for something they can do together. There’s a ride that shoots its passengers up a tall tower and then drops them; that’s out. Crowley has fallen quite far enough in his time, and the only thing the demon likes less than the idea of himself reliving the Fall is the idea of _ Aziraphale _falling. He finds himself standing in front of a food van, wondering if a hot dog might ease some of the anxiety churning his stomach.

He’s just about to order when the blessing hits him, a ripple of goodness that seems to emanate from the near distance. Crowley has assured him he’ll be fine; he has to respect that, or he’ll lose his demon by clinging too tight. He asks for a hot dog with onions, and as he hands over his money the wave hits him again. Another blessing, more pain laced through it now, and he wonders if he should be worried about his fellow angel. Whoever it is seemed to rally for a moment, there, but now their condition is clearly worsening. Should he try to help? Should he seek them out, if only to distract them from his demon? The smiling woman behind the counter of the van hands him his hot dog and he nods absently in thanks. Then, as another wave of blessing crashes over him, he traces it back towards the source.

It’s alarming, if not entirely surprising, to find himself approaching the Haunted House, the Hall of Mirrors, and Crowley’s booth. Aziraphale can still feel it, blessing after blessing threatening to knock him off his feet, as if the stricken angel knows they’re running out of time. The blessings are almost more pain than love, now, but no less strong for it, no less certain. Whoever is being blessed, they are being prioritised over the life force of an ethereal being; the being in question must be about to drop from exhaustion.

He turns away from scanning the crowds just in time to see Crowley wrap his arms around a desperate-looking man and sway alarmingly as the pulse of blessing spreads again. _ Crowley _ . Suddenly it’s all so clear. He doesn’t know _ how _the demon is the source of such pure, bright miracles, but he can’t deny the evidence of his own eyes, his own soul. Crowley sends the man on his way with a smile, then pulls the sign down from the tent and collapses into a folding chair at the back of it. He doesn’t look up as Aziraphale approaches, his head in his hands, biting his lip, so the angel just hands him the hot dog.

“I know you don’t eat, but you need your energy.”

“Don’t know… what you mean.”

“Crowley.” The demon doubles over, and Aziraphale realises he’s not just drained; this is not a simple matter of overstretching himself. “Crowley, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine… goes away. Give me-”

“What have you done to yourself, my dear?” Aziraphale kneels before his demon and presses his forehead to Crowley’s, wishing his sunglasses weren’t in the way. He needs to see Crowley’s eyes, he needs to assess the damage inside him. But Crowley only sighs, leans back and takes a bite of the hot dog.

“You’ll laugh,” he warns, but his voice is stronger than before, and Aziraphale can only shake his head.

“Only if it’s funny, and I suspect it’s not.”

“Been doing- I mean, the Arrangement- ‘s a reason I preferred the straight miracles.” He stops for another bite of hot dog, offering the rest to Aziraphale as if anything he’s just said explains it all. Aziraphale frowns.

“No, you need that. What about the Arrangement?”

“I was just saying. It wasn’t always Sloth, me rigging the coin tosses.”

“I knew it,” Aziraphale blurts, and then remembers that they’re having a serious conversation. He’s almost certain Crowley is trying to distract him from his original question, but he nods for him to continue anyway. “What was it, then? If it wasn’t Sloth?”

“Self-preservation.” Crowley’s almost finished the hot dog, now, and Aziraphale can feel his energy levels beginning to stabilise. “Demonic miracles worked just as well as your kind, for most of your jobs. But blessings… blessings hurt like- like Somewhere.”

“You don’t- I mean- I thought you just did the demonic equivalent.”

“A curse? I never cursed anyone on your assignments, angel. Don’t think that would have gone down well.”

“Then- how- you _ can’t perform blessings. _”

“That’s what I thought.” Crowley sighs. “Turns out, it’s possible. It’s just _ horrible_.”

“Then why didn’t you _ say _something? Crowley, I sent you on- what, three, four blessings over the centuries? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t mind.” Crowley hangs his head, and Aziraphale narrows his eyes, suspicious. “I like making them happy, sometimes. It makes a change. All those broken hearts and sharp edges, and most of the time all I can do is make it worse. Helping… felt nice, even though it hurt.”

“And after everything? After we saved the world?”

“Started picking my own blessings.” The demon doesn’t seem entirely present, as if he’s off in some sort of dream. “All these humans we live with, and so many need help. So…”

“So you’ve been giving them it.” Suddenly, a lot of things click into place. “At the kissing booth. That was you.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought- I thought _ Heaven _ was after us-” But Crowley flinches, and Aziraphale realises he’s still not well enough to deal with his interrogation. He snaps his fingers, banishing the booth to the storeroom of the bookshop. Then, after a moment’s contemplation, he snaps them again, and banishes the pair of them likewise.

It’s the work of moments to get Crowley onto the sofa in the back room, where he finally stops trying to pretend the blessings he’s given out aren’t affecting him. It’s not out of choice, Aziraphale realises with alarm, as Crowley collapses into the cushions with a whimper and his sunglasses slip from his face. His normally slitted pupils are blown wide, a reaction to the extreme stress his body is under, but Aziraphale only glimpses them for a second before Crowley scrunches his eyes closed.

“I might… possibly… have overdone it.”

“Oh, do you think so?” But this is no time to be flippant; Aziraphale reaches out and buries a hand in Crowley’s hair, fingers moving gently in a way he knows Crowley finds soothing. “Don’t worry about it for now, dear. We’ll talk about it later, when you’re better. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Mm. Just that. Keep doing that, and let me sleep for a bit.”

“It would be my pleasure. Be well, Crowley.”

Crowley sleeps, and sleeps deeply. Aziraphale sits with him for half an hour before giving into his anxiety and unfocusing his eyes slightly, refocusing on the celestial plane. He searches for damage, and finds that the frayed edges of Crowley’s essence are already beginning to knit back into a coherent whole. It shouldn’t have been possible for Crowley to access any sort of Grace - his had been ripped from him long ago - but the damage is concentrated just where it should have been, and it seems that he has done just that. How many times, Aziraphale wonders, has his beautiful, reckless, wonderful fool of a demon torn his soul apart to bring joy to others? How many times has he dragged himself home, or to the bookshop, drained and aching, with Aziraphale none the wiser?

“Angel.” For a moment, he thinks Crowley is talking in his sleep, but then one yellow eye opens. It doesn’t look as pained as before. “Angel, I can practically _ hear _you worrying.”

“Sorry, dear. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm. Not gonna discorporate, you know.”

“I should hope not. I’d hate to have to go through _ literal Hell _to get you back, just so I could kill you myself.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley stretches, loose-limbed and uninhibited, a blink or two from sleep. “You wouldn’t. You love me too much.” His eyes close again, and Aziraphale is left to his thoughts, his hand frozen in Crowley’s hair.

He _ does_. He loves Crowley so much that it frightens him, which is why he’s never actually got around to telling the demon how he feels. He’s always just assumed it was obvious, but to hear Crowley say it - _ you love me _ \- seems a new and terrifying development. Crowley hasn’t said the words, either, and Aziraphale’s not sure if he can. If, as a demon, he’s _ capable _ of professing love. He shouldn’t be capable of loving at all… but then he shouldn’t be capable of _ blessing_, either, and it seems he’s been doing _ that _like it’s going out of style.

He knows as soon as Crowley wakes, two hours later, because he suddenly launches himself off of the sofa. Aziraphale’s hand snags in his hair, a reflexive grab, but he suspects that Crowley’s yelp is unrelated.

“I mean- that’s not- I’m not assuming-”

“That I love you?” It’s easier, somehow, to phrase it as a question. He smooths down Crowley’s hair where he’s inadvertently pulled it. “Of course I do. How are you feeling?”

“I- wh- better- oh.” Crowley’s shoulders slump. “This is the part where you’re angry with me.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale pats the seat beside him. “Come up here and talk to me.” The demon slinks up onto the sofa and allows Aziraphale to take both his hands. The angel takes full advantage, peering anxiously into Crowley’s eyes until he’s certain the demon is both alert and unharmed. “Why do you think I’ll be angry with you, my dear?”

“Because I got hurt. It was stupid, I did too much-”

“I’m not angry. You’re very brave, and very-” Crowley hisses, but Aziraphale is undeterred. “-very kind. But I do have some questions.”

“Ask ‘em,” Crowley says, and his fingers twitch as if he’d like to make an airy hand gesture if only Aziraphale didn’t have his hands in a firm grip.

“How long… how many times have you done this?”

“This? Never. I wore myself out, there were so many people- I got carried away.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and waits. “Oh. You mean the, er, blessings.”

“Yes, Crowley, I mean the blessings. The blessings you shouldn’t even be _ capable _ of, the ones that apparently _ hurt _ you, and which you have apparently been doing for _ fun_.”

“Hey, you said you weren’t angry!” But Crowley holds his hands up in surrender, and this time Aziraphale lets him. “First time was… er, 1666? You sent me to influence a painter in London, and then I ended up having to bless the idiot because he was trying to get a decent landscape of the fire while it was still raging. Hayls, was it? John Hayls.”

“Crowley, it would have been an understandable failure on my part. Never mind yours-”

“I didn’t want to let you down. And then, once I knew I could do it…”

“I sent you to Edward Jenner in the early 1700s, didn’t I? I thought you were just going to perform a few demonic miracles to make sure his work flourished, but you came back so quickly-”

“Yeah. Blessed him. Slept for three days. Came home.”

"And… and just now?"

"Lonely people. Hopeless people. One who wanted so badly to be a mother. She'll be a great one," the demon assures him, but Aziraphale is aghast.

"How many today, Crowley?"

"I don't know. Twelve? Fifteen? Can't have been more than twenty, things got a bit hazy at the end there."

"Crowley," Aziraphale begins, and something in his tone seems to hit Crowley hard. He stiffens, tensing as if he's expecting a reprimand or even a smiting. That's all wrong; it's _ Aziraphale _who's smitten.

"_Crowley," _ he tries again, softer. "You are a wonder, and I love you." Somehow, in this moment, it's not hard to say it, but by the way Crowley gapes at him anyone would think he's just performed Bohemian Rhapsody in its entirety, harmonies and all. "But you do know I can perform blessings? Effortlessly, without pain?"

"Yeah, yeah, there's no need to be smug about it."

"By which I mean, why didn't you _ ask me _ instead of tearing your soul apart?"

Crowley gapes at him, and Aziraphale knows that it's not because it's never occurred to him that Aziraphale's powers could spare him this pain. Somehow, it seems that it has simply never occurred to Crowley that he could _ ask _ such a trifling favour of him.

"I-"

"We're on our own side, Crowley. You and me. If you want something of me, it's yours. You only have to-" But then Crowley's lips are on his, and the _ ask _ is swallowed up. The demon pulls him closer, dropping back into a reclining position on the sofa so he can drag Aziraphale on top of himself.

"It was- it seemed worth the price," Crowley gasps between kisses, and Aziraphale nips at his lip in gentle reprimand.

"Not to me. Nothing is worth _ you._"

"I love you," the demon whimpers, and the sound is little more than a broken moan, the sound of a heart cracking open. "I love you," he says again, and Aziraphale feels his own heart spill over.

"I love you, too, my dearest Crowley."

And that love is worth any price at all.


End file.
